The otter's field
by planet p
Summary: A short, speculative piece about Ocee.


**The otter's field **by planet p

**Disclaimer** I don't own _the Pretender_ or any of its characters.

**Author's Notes** The idea for this came from Mr. Parker's comment in _Island of the Haunted_ when he arrived on Carthis to capture Jarod and rescue Miss Parker when they were down in that chamber where they'd found the scrolls. He said something about mothers, which I thought was a tad odd, but gave me an idea, which turned into this.

So, it's about someone's mother; I'll tell you who at the end, but see if you can guess first.

* * *

They'd met in a tumbling, rocky field of otter brown earth, and lumps of rock like the petrified knuckles of giants, or the statures of giants, arms and hands raised to the sky, with fingers balled into palms, into fists, and long since inundated by time and the substance of earth, beaten down, and broken up, time and again, new to old, and old to new.

She'd stubbed her toe on a protruding rock, its skin gnarled and pitted, as though old and diseased, or merely weathered by time or indifference, and covered in lichen in shades of off-whites, yellows, greys and greens, a banner of history and life. The toe had bled, its blood – _her_ blood – stark against the weakness of the watery sky, more white than blue. An omen, perhaps?

If so, she'd taken no notice.

Yes, she still remembered that rocky field of her youth. It's been so long, now, since youth, since carelessness, since such utter anguish at yearnings, longings, pitifully inconsequentials and future prospects, alike.

And here, this rock, this stone, where she now lay, the wind a savage familiar, but nought a friend, and nought now, in this hour, this dwindling hour, the wind to spirit her away. To the spirit world, perhaps? If such a thing, such a marvellous, frightening, inconceivable thing existed. If, indeed!

This rock, this rock of the earth that had seen so much, had seen such tides of changes, and unchange, such repetition of history, and thought what of it? Had seen the birth of her only child, and his death, in a cold and distant dungeon across the oceans.

Oh the oceans, the thrashing, rollicking oceans! Oh, she'd surely miss the ocean, she thought, as her blood spilled once again onto rock, but this time for the last time. She'd miss the ocean; she'd miss her son. All this time, she'd believed him perished, believed him dead, yet now, upon the bed of her death, how cruel that she should learn such a truth, how cruel to learn that the child she'd thought dead, she'd abandoned.

She remembered the war, that had taken her husband from her, remembered how it had used to be played. And then, he'd returned to her. He'd returned to her, in a different body, but he'd returned, and he'd never loved her less, though she alone remembered how well he'd loved in the old days, in that first body.

But this was not war, this was terror, and subjugation, and all manner of unhandsome deeds. War was surely fought of fields, fields of otter brown, under watery skies. And honour, what of honour? And promises kept, instead of broken? Did anyone keep their promises these days?

The earth was waiting. It would take her body into its arms, and release of spirit to the universe; it, alone, would keep its promise. Earth of eternal youth, of change and same and change and same.

The soldiers did not pause as they passed her by, for why should they. They wore no armour, nor carried swords, though she knew the danger they possessed, the danger to those that she'd come to care for, and that her son had cared for longer still, yet she knew, as the last of the soldiers passed by, what the little girl did not know, she knew that it would be tolerable to leave her body now, and make her journey into the watery depths of the unknown, where a new life, a different life would sure be awaiting her. How long had that life been waiting, she wondered, waiting just for her? Would it want her now, would it accept her, or was she to do it all again? Live and die and live and die, over and over?

She thought briefly, then, of the scared child, of the little girl, of her horror and confusion at this mortal, this woman, who could see her, see her plainly. What could this mortal woman want with her? If only she'd have been able to see her, communicate with her, tell her that there was nothing to be afraid of, not anymore, that it was life that waited, not cold death, but renewal. If only for that. Perhaps, she'd not be alone, after all, if only for that. But, whilst she'd been able to sense the child, she'd never been able to contact her, to communicate with her. Such had not been the way of her affliction, her gift.

Yet, as her blood rejoined the earth, she saw, across the way, as a child's small figure grew nearer, and in the last moment, there was warmth, and someone to hold her hand, and someone to let go.

* * *

_The idea was that maybe Ocee had been Angelo's mother. __Lame, but thanks for reading anyway! =)_


End file.
